


Like My Mirror Years Ago

by Aboutnothingness (Thesherlockholmes)



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt No Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Magical Realism, Pre-Slash, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26014777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesherlockholmes/pseuds/Aboutnothingness
Summary: There's something he must know, something in the other man’s eyes, but what he’s looking for slips from his mind just as he catches the thought. Who is the mad man? It must be me. You, you impossible creature, are the wise one. Don’t you already know that, how could he not?Freddie and Brian are so intrinsically connected it feels like they’ve know each other since the beginning of time. (Set toFrom Eden, by Hozier)
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 10
Kudos: 19





	Like My Mirror Years Ago

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my dear, dear beta BisexualRoger for reading this piece over at least three times as I changed and added to it. Thanks for encouragement, compliments, punctuation help, wording clarification, and listening to my ramblings.
> 
> Dear Readers: Look, I know the tag says pre-slash but if you put on some glasses and squint you could make this platonic soulmates or an established relationship. It’s really up to you!

_Babe, there's something tragic about you_  
_Something so magic about you_  
_Don't you agree?_

  
It’s not often that he glances up from his guitar during a show. He’s completely immersed in the music, in the audience—you must be, lest a note slip, or a riff fall flat. But, very occasionally, he hazards a glance up: during Freddie’s vocal improvisations, during his speeches to the crowd, during a piano solo. He is always looking for one thing and one thing only: the lithe, restless creature who calls himself _Mercury._

An apt name, really. Aside from the mythical connotations, the scientific he is equally quick to apply. Mercury, an element with the short hand: quicksilver. What would happen if he were to call Freddie that? ‘ _Quicksilver, gorgeous_.’ He hasn't the nerve, nor the inclination, thank you all the same. Just like mercury, the young man is steady, a constant of sorts, and certainly malleable, for better or worse. Intoxicating… poisonous—or so his father would be quick to say. He’s not so sure himself. A creature as gentle as Freddie couldn't possibly be poisonous, dangerous. But then, that's how they get you... isn’t that what he was taught? 

Tonight, he risks a look. Freddie is in the angel costume, the shining white number, personifying himself unquestionably as the immortal figure _Mercury_. His night-sky-black hair shines under the light and he’s close enough to see how soaked in sweat it is, how beautiful it looks plastered to his forehead, to his neck. The man runs nail varnished fingernails through it for a moment, moving it off his slicked skin. The stage lights are torture, but this is work too—no matter what his father might think—and has its own sacrifices, its own difficulties. The pressing difficulty is dragging his eyes away from the figure in front of him as he introduces the next number: White Queen. 

That, too, is terribly apt for the moment. Freddie hardly knows what he’s saying, who he's really singing about. He can't think about it, his hands are sweating, he loses himself in his guitar, and he misses a note.

-

_Babe, there's something lonesome about you_  
_Something so wholesome about you_  
_Get closer to me_

  
Brian is currently lost in his guitar solo and wandering the stage. He takes the opportunity to drink some of the water atop the piano and then some lemon and honey. The lanky man takes centre stage, the spotlight making a halo out of his hair. An angel, someone much better than him. And yet… 

There he is, alone on the stage, everyone else faded into the background. Brian could hardly know how he looks right now, immersed in his creation, all eyes on him as he deserves. He hardly minds when the man draws out his solos, seeing him like this… admired, adored by the audience. His own Jimi Hendrix—truly. Even better, though he'd never tell the man—he's got a big enough head filled with the cosmos, with the secrets of the world. Can't have it getting any bigger. This is something of an excuse though, if he's being honest.

A crescendo, a scale, and now he’s playing something harsh and almost a different song. The theme is entirely different and Freddie finds he can't place the emotion Brian is conveying in his riffs. For him alone, then. A mystery only for him. Is it about love, is that the problem? Perhaps that's the link he’s missing… a normal understanding of love? None of them are normal, not really, but he is, in his way, entirely removed from the rest. Roger’s drums are about to beat him back in, the man has just motioned to him, Brian is going back to his corner, and he must once again take centre stage. He almost hates giving it up.

He has the advantage of being a spectacle and here it is a positive, he embraces it, he might even love it—you must work with what you are given. There's his cue. 

The spotlight blinds him. 

He looks away, over at Brian—the towering model of perfection in man—and sings.

-

_No tired sighs, no rolling eyes, no irony_

“You okay?”

Freddie looks up at Brian from the worn backstage couch he’s all but passed out on. He musters a sigh, his throat too hoarse to form words without pain. It sounds laced with the bone-deep exhaustion and pain he’s feeling, anyway. Brian moves his feet out of the way and takes a seat on the edge of the couch. 

The man sighs, leaning back into the cushions, “We were good tonight.”

He nods. They had been together, the harmonies spot-on, the energy electric—it was a thrill: the kind of show you want every night, but rarely achieve. 

“Audience was enjoying your jokes.”

That is something he finds difficult to believe. Hadn't he stuttered through his addresses? There was one point he’d got caught on finding the right word and then… well, then he was thinking about that and forgot the title of the song, creating what must have been received as a dramatic pause—he hopes… oh thank Heavens if it was!—before remembering it. He grimaces, barely suppresses an eye roll. It was, after all, a good show. He shouldn't nit-pick too terribly much.

“What?” Brian nudges his feet, “Don’t go tearing it all up now!”

He looks at him with surprise—mind reader!

Brian laughs, “I know you by now, Fred. Nothing is ever good enough, you’ll have found ten things that could have been better in a second!” 

He smirks, that is all true. 

“Need some more tea? Something for your throat?”

A stare that means, _what do you think?_

“Alright, come on, get dressed you must be freezing. I’ll scrounge up some tea.”

He nods and Brian gets up and leaves the dressing room. Another night, another performance, on with life once again.

-

_No 'who cares', no vacant stares, no time for me_

  
That the curtains in Brian’s room are shut tight is the first thing he notices when he steps into the bedroom on some innocuous day around noon. The next thing he notices is the array of glasses scattering the floor and the bedside table, and then the lanky figure laying on his side, wrapped up in blankets. There is still a decent amount of light filtering into the room through the closed curtains, which only serves to make the sheer _wrongness_ of the scene more obvious. The stillness stifles him and stops his voice in his throat. He clears his throat involuntarily, but Brian doesn't stir at the noise.

He’s not asleep, Freddie knows. Rather, this is the scene of a black mood—a mass hurricane incoming and Brian has retreated to the shadows. Nothing good comes of this, only if he’s lucky is there a sad song for an album. 

He shuts the door behind him as quietly as possible, but the lock still clicks too loudly. He winces, before making his way over to the bed. Coming right to the edge is currently impossible, there are mugs in his way, so he moves them all over and then shuffles closer, kneeling down so he’s eye level with Brian. 

There's a pause before he speaks in a whisper, knowing from previous experience just how irritable Brian can be when he’s like this, “Brimi, dear?”

Predictably there is no response. This will take some pestering, no matter how restless doing so makes him. 

“Brian, I know you’re awake.” 

“Go away, Fred.” His voice is muffled by blankets and misery.

“Sorry, darling, not happening. Now, first things first, when did you last eat?”

Freddie hears the tick of a clock somewhere in the flat in the silence and wonders if tea has been the only thing Brian’s consumed in the last week. He can only hope the man isn't counting tea as a valid nutritional substance.

“Last night,” he grumbles.

That's not really a satisfactory answer, but there's no one else in to make him anything and the man’s obviously _not_ getting up, so it'll have to suffice. 

“Right, and the tea certainly hasn't run out–”

“Freddie just go away.”

“You know I won't.”

Brian groans and finally, _finally_ turns over to look at him from under the blankets. That he’s terrifyingly pale is the first thing Freddie notices, the second thing is the look in his eyes—nothingness: blank, and nearly lifeless. He can't help the pained sound that comes out of his mouth upon seeing his friend.

“Oh, Brimi…” He lifts a tentative hand and brushes some greasy hair away from Brian's forehead, feeling the matted quality as he does. Brian's eyes close, his expression pained. Freddie hardly knows what to do, but he must do _something_. Brian can't look like _that._

“Darling, what's happened?” It’s a whisper, a hand brushed over more matted hair, uncertainty. 

A miserable, broken, “Who cares?” 

Freddie swallows, wills himself to speak to that horrid question, to Brian’s crux: insignificance and meaninglessness, “I do.”

It is silent for a very long time and Freddie slips from his knees to sit properly on the floor. He does not move, does not speak. Does Brian really want him to leave? Perhaps it wasn't the best thing, coming here. He’s rather a quiet, lone figure at times… should Freddie have let him be just that for the moment? Not imposed himself? Terrible things could happen then, though. Always a possibility that goes unthought of and unacknowledged—just another thing under the surface, under the facade. Such they have in common and so, he will sit here and wait, and maybe one day, Brian will do the same for him.

-

_Babe, there's something broken about this_  
_But I might be hoping about this._

  
They are sharing a double room. It’s the Midwest leg of the tour and this is to be expected. Also expected, or _should_ have been expected, was what happened at the evening show. It always comes as a shock, though, even after all these years. 

Some voice calling from the vast blackness in front of the stage, distinct even among the cheering audience, “Faggot!”

A cheeky grin from Freddie and then, “Oh, are you? Thank you for telling us!” 

But the joking onstage was swiftly replaced by a moody backstage. And the moody is only covering up pain, deep hurt, old wounds only covered and never healed. This is something Brian knows for certain and has seen the after effects of, has had to pick up the pieces of a broken Freddie, and try to meld them back together. He and Roger both, really, for years.

Currently, Brian is lying in the bed closest to the door. The other one is empty. Brian is wide awake. He is tossing and turning and wondering where the _hell_ Freddie has got to. Another night on the town, some bar or other hunted out by Paul? It wouldn't bother him usually, let Freddie have all the fun he wants, good, he deserves it for all he pushes himself onstage. But right now, the only thing Freddie could possibly be doing is drowning his sorrows in alcohol, which is really _not_ going to help. The man should be here pretending he’s fine, because it's better he pretend to Brian where he can drop the pretence whenever he finally _breaks_ , than out there with no one to hold him when he does.

Speak of the… well, he’s not quite the devil, is he?—the door bangs open and Brian hears the scuffle of feet, a mutter, and then the door being shut, gently now. He leans up to turn on the lamp on the nightstand, just as Freddie comes into view. 

“Bri…” he shuffles over to his bed, voice heavy with drink, “Did I–did I wake you… sorry…” 

“I was up.” 

Freddie just nods and sits down, hunched over, seeming to examine his shoes. Silence reigns for a moment and Freddie is quite unnaturally still.

“Want some water?” Brian ventures, for lack of where to start.

Freddie just shakes his head, still not looking up at him. He brushes a hand through his tangled, curly mane and puts his legs over the edge of the bed to face Freddie. 

“What's up?” He says it gently, as only one can pose a question to Freddie. Any other way and it’s entirely hopeless, only a bit more luck if asked quietly. 

“You should go to sleep, Brian. It's late.” 

“Freddie, I won't be able to sleep until you tell me–”

“I'm _fine_.” Freddie interrupts, the harsh tone entirely contradicted by the thickness of his voice. It’s the sound of tears being swallowed.

So, this isn’t to be talked out yet. 

Brian reaches over and places a large, calloused hand on Freddie's knee, and squeezes just slightly. Freddie’s hand comes up to his face, still obscured by hair and shadows, but that's no matter, Brian already knows why. It’s not unexpected, really, only a bit strange if thought of, when he finally rises and crosses the foot between them to envelope Freddie in an embrace. He feels the man’s breath hitch, the sobs detained for hours finally coming out in full force. He smells the scent of a seedy bar in his hair, alcohol and cheap cigarette smoke. It’s enough to make him gag, but he swallows the reflex— _what a rockstar you are, May_. He smooths his hands over Freddie’s back, up and down, over the leather jacket he’s still wearing. 

There he stays for an undetermined amount of time, until the man in his arms is no longer sobbing, but only sniffling, and pulls away. He doesn't want to let go, but then, what can he do?

“Sorry, darling. It’s so– so silly,” Freddie wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand, “You’d think,” he laughs harshly, shaking his head, “You’d think I'd be over it by now.”

“It’s alright.”

Freddie looks up at him, his eyes red and the look—broken, hurt, ashamed—is enough to bring tears to Brian’s own eyes. He wills them back.

“It’s not though, is it?”

  
_Oh what a sin_

It’ll catch up with you sooner or later. Everything you hide. 

  
_To the strand a picnic plan for you and me  
A rope in hand for your other man to hang from a tree_

When Freddie is settled in the deep sleep that follows a heavy bout of drinking—though thankfully not passed out—Brian places a glass of water near Freddie’s bed along with some Paracetamol for the morning. He’s bone weary himself now and soon after turning off the light, he’s dead asleep.

_He recognises the street he used to walk down as he looks back over his shoulder. His house was… yes, just a block or so away. Well, he's not here for that. He turns and, finding the door unlocked, enters the house he's found himself in front of. He knows he must, he’s pulled inside by some intrinsic, inner force. Knowing, and an unsettlement akin to terror._

_The hallway is small, there’s a table set to the side, and what looks to be a Persian style rug under his feet. The house smells of warmth and Indian spices. Somewhere further inside the house, he hears raised voices, and stops a moment to listen._

_“And what are we to do? He’s a devil worshiper.” A man’s harsh tone, the sounds of footsteps. They're not coming closer, no, only going back and forth—someone pacing._

_“Calm down, he’ll right himself.” A woman’s voice, soft and placating._

_“_ Years _. It’s been_ years _. And you think this will change?”_

 _“There's always a way.” The pacing stops, “We must pray, continue on the right path._ Humata, Huxta, Huvarshta _. He’ll return to Ahura Mazda, abandon Ahriman.”_

_“Don’t be naive. It’s better he not associate with our family anymore. We can’t bring that upon ourselves.”_

_It goes quiet for a very long time and he decides he’ll likely hear no more conversation. There are stairs right at the end of the hall, so he climbs them, stomach lurching with every step. What is it he will find at the top of the staircase?_

_The hall is quiet and deserted, the room he’s looking for is at the end of it. Nothing matters except what he will find in that room._

_The door is closed, of course, and so he knocks—_ manners, manners _—and then opens the door. The room is small, a desk with a few papers on it is beneath a window, there’s an acoustic guitar in the corner, a few hats and scarves thrown haphazardly over a chair, a mirror and dresser to one side, and opposite is a narrow bed. On it is a figure curled on his side atop the covers, facing away from him. He takes a few steps closer to settle on the edge of the bed, right on the corner, giving who he knows is Freddie room._

 _“Go away.” The voice is younger than the one he knows, but recognisable all the same, and sounds choked by hurt and laced with hate. For who, he is not completely unsure. Is this where it started or only a, now expected, continuation—_ years _, he remembers hearing._ Oh, please, no. Not for so long. You can't have hurt for this long.

_“What did they say to you?” He asks, because he must know. How much pain has come from the people you look to for love, for care, for protection, for understanding? How much has he been alienated, cast away—in childhood and now..._

_A shudder runs through Freddie, and his breath hitches as he tries to stall his tears. It doesn't work, and his breath only comes faster, faster. Brian scrambles up the bed and lays a hand on his back, solid and reassuring._

_“Hey, hey, breathe now. Come on, with me. In,” Brian inhales loudly, exaggerated, “and out. In and out. A nice rhythm, that's all. In… and out.”_

_This is not new—having handled Freddie's panic attacks before shows, after shows, during parties, after nasty tricks have been played on him, after he’s been mocked and abused and abandoned—and so, he knows how long it will take until Freddie calms down enough to speak. He continues until Freddie is definitely calm and his breathing is naturally even. It’s quiet as he waits for the boy_ (the man?) _to say something, always give him time—_ wait, wait, in three-four time.

 _“I didn't even do anything,” the voice is small and shattered, almost childlike, and what he says sounds like a plea, “It was just– he was just a_ friend _,” Freddie finally turns around and Brian gets a look at his face for the first time. He looks so young—how old is he? Eighteen? Nineteen? His face is streaked with tears._

 _“I_ swear _and—” Freddie groans low and miserable, “He was the only friend I’ve made this year and_ now _–”_

_He breaks off, dangerously close to crying again. Brian hears him try to steady his breath, sees him squeeze his eyes closed. Freddie sits up and buries his head in his hands._

_“There's no point anymore. I’m done for, anyways. Nothing matters. Might as well do away with it all.”_

_“No!”_

_Freddie jumps at his exclamation, looking up at him suddenly._

_“Sorry, sorry,” Brian amends, voice going soft and quiet, “But Freddie–”_

_“How do you,” Freddie shakes his head, confusion written on his face, “Who the hell_ are _you? You seem… familiar, but I– I don't know…”_

 _There's no logical way to answer that, is there? The truth then, “I'm an… old friend, or, more of, well… more of–” Brian shakes his head, now confused himself._ What is happening?

_“I know you. Not now, but…”_

_Freddie waves a hand at him and lets out a wet laugh, “Nevermind, dear. I know you somehow, details are…”_

_He trails off, all interest lost in the line of puzzlement and drowned out by his previous thoughts. He buries his face in his hands briefly, before running them through his (now much shorter) hair._

_“I keep trying, but it's no use. No_ fucking _use.” His voice breaks on the word. “If I could only–“_

_Freddie’s face contorts in agony, loathing and regret clear on his face, “If I could only get rid of it, kill it… everything.”_

Oh Freddie…

_Brian reaches out and settles a hand on Freddie's knee, how many times has he done this? How much worse is this time?_

_“It’ll be alright, eventually.” It sounds like a platitude and Brian rushes to say something of use, “I know you, years from now. And Freddie… you’re_ brilliant _. You can't–” Brian shakes his head at himself, at the insanity of all of this. And yet, he’s sure this matters, that this isn't a mere flight of fancy. He clears his throat, wills back tears, and wills himself to be courageous just this once._

 _“You matter more to me than anything else in the universe. Keep on. This will be alright in a few years. You won’t have to fight it, or hide. I promise. You’ll be happy._ Please _, Freddie.”_

_He’s begging and maybe it sounds pitiful, but this cannot happen. He pleads with his eyes, words aren’t enough._

_Freddie only regards him with a wary and puzzled expression, behind it is utter defeat. He nods anyways and Brian prays to every possible deity known to man that Freddie believes him. It’s the only hope._

Brian wakes with a lump in his throat to a still darkened room. He feels tears on his cheeks, his stomach is in a knot. He sits up, vaguely nauseous, and looks over. The street light coming in is just enough for him to make out the figure on the other bed. Brian listens for a moment—the steady breath of sleep, calm. He lies back down and doesn't take his eyes off Freddie until dawn.

-

_Honey, you're familiar like my mirror years ago  
Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on its sword  
Innocence died screaming, honey, ask me I should know  
I slithered here from Eden just to hide outside your door_

Freddie’s last vision before he falls asleep is that of a starry, ink black sky outside the window of the country inn they're staying at between gigs. It’s far enough away from the city that they litter the sky, not brilliantly, but more than he would see in his usual central London, and he thinks of Brian.

_The wood floor creaks under his feet as he walks up the stairs and then down the carpeted hallway lit by a stream of moonlight coming in from the window at the end of the corridor. Brian’s childhood home is oddly familiar to him, given him having only been here twice. There are a few family pictures hung on the wall, but it's otherwise bare. The door to Brian’s room is shut, but he’s wanted, he knows it intrinsically, as an ache in his bones, so he twists the knob._

_There is Brian, pale and skeletal, only just saved from near death, underneath the covers, coming out of a bout of sleep. His hands skimming the comforter in an imitation of a riff, there are lyrics, all formed. Freddie can hear it._

_There’s a chair set at the end of the bed and on it a pad and pen. He drags the chair closer and sets to work. Lyrics… they're odd when written, but make such sense. The chords… the riffs are no struggle, not like they usually are—he copies them down besides the lyrics._

Oh people can you hear me?  
I, you, come here

_He hears the fade, the movement from side to side, the crescendo of voices, the relay and somehow it's all before him, neatly written._

But still I fear and still I dare not   
laugh at the madman.

_Brian hasn’t moved, hasn't uttered a single sound, but his eyes flicker open just as Freddie looks up from the notation._

_“Hey, Freddie,” barely a whisper._

_“Hi, how are you feeling?”_

_“Nevermind that,” Brian’s eyebrows furrow as the man looks over at him, “What on earth are you wearing?”_

_“Hmm?” Freddie looks down and sees the leather jacket he’s been so fond of recently and the ancient white scarf, “I–”_

_Brian sighs, “Who’s the wise man, who’s the mad man, and who hasn't let you go?”_

_Freddie looks up and reaches for a hand resting on the now, folded over covers. It’s cold and frail. Brian looks even paler, nearly matching the pillowcase itself, and the shadows under his eyes are only getting darker. It doesn't occur to him to question how the man knows a song he hasn't yet written._

_“Of course, it's the supreme being,” Brian supplies to his own question, then at length, “Ahura Mazda,” he inhales, as if steeling himself for something, “Or Ahriman?”_

_How could Brian possibly know about that? It’s an impossibility. His eyes are growing wet, but he’s not letting go of Brian to dry his tears._

_“Now, don't cry. It’s alright. Love is still the answer.”_

Just take my hand.

  
“Freddie?” Brian is shaking his shoulder, “Freddie!” 

The image fades—no longer a chair, no longer a pale and dying man, no longer a hand in his—and he’s pulled from the embrace of sleep. He looks up to see the man’s face. No longer gaunt and sickly pale. It hasn't been for years. Only visible in the moonlight where he can just make out a worried expression. 

“You were muttering and then, then I heard you crying… you said my name, something about being terribly ill, and–” he breaks himself off and his lips set into a tight line. Freddie reaches up to stroke the side of his face, ungoverned by thought, still wrapped in sleep. There's something he must know, something in the other man’s eyes, but what he’s looking for slips from his mind just as he catches the thought. _Who is the mad man?_ It must be me. You, you impossible creature, are the wise one. Don’t you already know that, how could he not? 

“Sorry for waking you.”

“I'm alright, dear,” _Just dreaming on a moonlit stair_. Brian gives him a puzzled look. Must have uttered that, then. He sighs and moves over a bit.

“Come here,” is all he has to say and Brian slides into the bed besides him. Under the covers, Freddie takes his hand and closes his eyes, still heavy with sleep. He hopes Brian will admire the stars twinkling outside the window, such a rare beauty, and drifts back into the warm embrace of sleep and the man lying beside him.

**Author's Note:**

> *looks at you like a Dickensian child* Comments, please, sir? Any comments?


End file.
